Prelude
by stone in focus
Summary: Minor S3 spoilers. Castle investigates his most difficult case yet: what to get Beckett for Christmas. Meanwhile, Beckett has a surprise of her own. Castle's POV. Rated T for suggestive themes. Gift fic for LostAcanthus.


"Castle, what are you doing?"

There's one thing you have to understand about Detective Kate Beckett: she is _always _on time. There are days where she'll commit herself without question to coming in a couple hours early or working several hours into the night when her job requires it (and often when it doesn't), but there's never any of this two minutes early or five minutes late business. She's like clockwork. She _is _clockwork. So when I glance up and see Beckett staring down over the monitor at almost ten before the hour, it's not exactly pretty. Ryan and Esposito, who are loitering over by the break room and not-so-inconspicuously snickering behind their ceramic mugs, will tell me later that I screamed like a little girl. But for now, I can only focus on the excruciating pain shooting through my entire leg after banging my knee on a sharp–and I mean _sha-ha-haaarp!_–corner of the desk. I can't say I'm particularly proud of the one or two…or twenty…four-letter words that slip out of my mouth, but forming any semblance of a coherent sentence is a bit tricky at the moment. "Uhhhh…_oh, god_…not looking at porn?"

Instead of threatening to slap on a pair of handcuffs and start interrogating me (which is rather disappointing), Beckett restrains a smirk with a roll of the eyes. "Uh, huh. Do we need to start child-proofing the station?"

I'll just ignore that. I suck in a breath of air through gritted teeth, gingerly massaging my knee as I watch her toss her purse into one of the desk's bottom drawers. "Aren't you even going to ask me why I was snooping around on your computer?"

"No," she responds lightly, unbuttoning her wool coat, "your agony is sufficient enough."

Note to self: do not get shot on Beckett's watch. "You know, you should really consider changing your password. Justice1117? Weak."

"How'd you–"

"Birthday. As for the 'justice' part…c'mon. Really, Detective?"

Her hand rests at her hip, and she dons a crooked and somewhat incredulous half-smile. "And I suppose you have something better?"

"Might I suggest something more along the lines of LeatherMistress, only turning all of the e's into threes? And maybe adding a few x's for good measure."

Her grin flatlines as she reaches for the chair, almost jerking it out from under me. Woman's got a strong grip. "_Out._"

She's laughing on the inside; trust me.

"Coffee?" I hand over her usual–but dashed with a bit of cinnamon and nutmeg this morning–as a peace offering. "Tastes like Christmas."

Her eyes dart from me to the cup, and as she snatches the drink, there is a split second where I pray to the holy java god that she doesn't pour the scalding hot beverage all over my pants. I _just _paid a fortune to have these dry-cleaned. Bloodstains? Not as easy to get out as you'd think. Oh, and the whole crotch on fire thing? Probably not so pleasant, either.

She says nothing, however, and simply slides into her desk and logs back in. A series of rapid clicks follows, which I suspect is a sign of changing her password. Too bad she doesn't realize I have a clear view of the keyboard as she's typing.

Now I'll let you in on a secret: the real reason I had sneaked onto her computer (and it had nothing remotely to do with porn, by the way) was because I was hoping to do a little recon. We're hurtling down the home stretch towards Christmas, and as ashamed as I am to admit it…I still have no clue what to get for Beckett. The only links in her browser history are news sites, and Detectives Tweedledum and Tweedledee are keeping their lips sealed. Bastards. It _bugs _me because I shouldn't be scrambling to put together something like this last minute. I can't just give her a bottle of expensive wine or, god forbid, the dreaded gift card. This present has to be something personal; something meaningful; something that will completely knock her off of her feet.

Something _perfect._

It seems at this point my only other option is to somehow work the question into conversation. But I have to be discreet about it; if Beckett figures me out, she's never going to let me live it down. I have to be cool. Smooth. Stealth. Or is it stealthy? Stealth-_ish? _

"So, tell me, Beckett." I casually tip-toe my fingers across her desk, toying with one of the pens in her pencil holder. She swats my hand away. "What kind of present do good girls like you ask Santa for?"

"Last year, I wanted a dog. He gave me you."

"Cute. You should try juggling next time." I scoot in closer. "But seriously, what would you want?"

Ehhh, stealth is overrated.

She stifles a yawn as she reaches for her coffee again, her eyes still glued to the monitor. "That desperate for ideas, are we?"

"Well, no, not…_desperate. _I'm actually asking because–"

"You have a sister and you have no idea what to get her."

How does she _do _that? "Maybe."

"You don't have a sister."

"Cousin?"

That time, she looks at me, raising an eyebrow.

"…Twice-removed?"

Beckett props herself up on an elbow, her eyes all alight. "Tell me, Castle: what do you want for Christmas?"

Really? _That _trick? On me?

All right, I'll bite.

Before I can work in a word edgewise, however, she jabs a finger at me. "And don't say anything about a stripper under your tree."

"For the record, that never even crossed my mind…" the chair makes a small squeak as I inch forward, "…but you think Santa would go for that?"

Her hands graze over the stack of paper littering her desk, leafing through the files. It's her way of trying to pretend she's not interested. It's adorable, really. "If Santa were involved in sex trafficking."

"I love you."

Her head jerks up, doe eyes blinking straight at me, and there may have even been a small twitch in her nose. Or as an amateur would write, _Like a deer caught in headlights. _But I'm no amateur, and I never wrote that.

"You used the subjunctive correctly. It was beautiful. I cried. In a manly sort of way."

"Oh."

And that, my dear reader friends, is the feeling of basking in the warmth and glow of a well-fed ego. Oh, so many things I could say right now: _Why, Beckett, you're looking mighty flushed around the collar. Beckett, do I detect a hint of disappointment? Beckett, are you fantasizing about a certain page 105 again? _I bear my cheekiest grin–the one she absolutely hates–and she immediately averts her eyes. You can't see it, obviously, but on the inside, I'm doing my awesome dance. Does the NYPD have any rules against showboating?

She presses her lips together, doing that thing where she tilts her head and squints her eyes shut. I am _so _going to pay for this later, but it's totally worth it. "Um…" she finally says as she scratches her head, "so what you were saying about what you wanted for Christmas?"

Nice cover-up. "Oh, right. I'm thinking this year: a personal sushi chef."

"A sushi chef?"

"Yes. But not just any ordinary sushi chef: a half-human, half-_robot _sushi chef. With _lasers. _Ooh, _or…_how about a giant gumball machine? Big enough to stand–nay, _swim _in. With a certified gumball inspector."

"Why do you need a gumball inspector?"

"To pick out all the nasty white ones, of course."

"Of course," she repeats. "Why didn't I think of that."

No, I am not forgetting a question mark. That's how she said it. With a period.

"You know, Castle, I never would've figured you for the holiday spirit type."

"Are you kidding me? Who doesn't love presents? Never quite as fun as Halloween, but it's a little unfair to compare a holiday to one officially sanctioned to scaring the living daylights out of people."

"In other words, it's the one day a year you're given a legitimate excuse to be a jackass."

"Precisely. Well, that, and St. Patrick's Day."

And there's another roll of the eyes. I should start keeping track. What are we at now? Five million? Six?

"As a gesture of goodwill and tidings to all," I go on to say, "I am hosting yet another legendary shindig this weekend. No costumes required this time, though if you do so feel the inclination, I won't object to you dressing up as Ms. Claus."

She sighs. "Unfortunately, I don't know if that's going to be possible."

"I have a red miniskirt you can borrow."

Her mouth dangles open for a moment before snapping it shut. "Not _that–_and I'm not even going to ask. But while you're out imbibing eggnog, there are murderers and burglars ensuring that the NYPD doesn't catch a break during the holidays."

Even as she's finishing her sentence, her cell phone rings. "We've got a lead."

"Does it involve a drunken grandmother and a delinquent reindeer with intent to trample?"

She laughs–or is it on the verge of a giggle? No, wait, that's weird. And scary. Detective Kate Beckett does not _giggle. _Still, the slight lilt to her voice is undeniable, one that I've noticed has become increasingly common as of late. "You're such a child, Castle."

She says that affectionately. I think.

It's not until we're ten feet out the door that I realize Beckett never answered my question about presents. She's not going to make this easy.

And I wouldn't expect any less of her.


End file.
